Rhodium

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

LOUD HAMMERING ON the apartment door woke me up, and I groaned. My phone informed me it was almost lunchtime, but it was Saturday, and I’d been out working until three in the morning. I needed a sleep-in. Hell, after the night I’d had, I deserved a sleep-in.

My client, a British fashion model who had two loves in life—money and himself—had decided on a little food-play. He’d covered me in honey, which wouldn’t have been so bad in itself had he not then attempted to stick a banana into the back door. Judging by the whipped cream on the nightstand, I think he was trying to create some weird version of banoffee pie.

I’d practically stuck to the sheets as I attempted to roll off the bed.

“Get the hell away from there!”

“Oh, come on. Ease up on the attitude.”

“No way. I don’t do that stuff.”

“I’ll pay you extra.”

And that was them. The four words that made me feel worse than any others. Every so often, I’d go on a date with a client who made me feel worth something, one who took me for dinner, had an actual conversation, and, when he f****d me at the end of the evening, almost made me forget his pickup line consisted of a sixteen-digit credit card number. But those were few and far between. Most men made me feel like trash.

“It’s not about the money.”

“With your type of girl, it’s always about the money.”

He lay there laughing as I pulled on my dress—easier said than done, as it kept sticking to my skin. Then I’d had to ride the bus home smelling like a beehive, with freaks and weirdos buzzing around me like they thought they could get a freebie.

So, screw the door. They could come back later or hope Chrissie answered it. It was probably for her, anyway. In my whole time in Richmond, my only visitors had been debt collectors, and I’d kept them away for over a year now.

“Go away,” I mumbled into my pillow.

The knocking stopped, but ten minutes later, the visitor came back. “It’s the police. Open up, please. Your neighbour said you were home.”

The police? Oh, hell. Octavia had warned us about the risk of arrest for what we did, but she always made the chances sound so slim. The maximum punishment for prostitution in the state of Virginia was a year in jail or a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine, but for a first offence, she assured us we’d only get a slap on the wrist. Chrissie swore she could spot an undercover cop a mile away, and all my recent clients apart from the model had been repeats. We always tried so hard to be careful. Had we been caught?

I tied my bathrobe around myself and pushed my hair back out of my eyes. Time to face the music.

“Hello?”

“Is this the residence of Christina Walker?”

“Yes?”

I willed myself to breathe slowly. So this wasn’t about me. Just keep calm.

“Detectives Briggs and McConnell. Can we come in?”

I took the chain off the door and swung it open. Both cops looked tired with dark circles under their eyes. The fatter of the two—I didn’t know whether it was Briggs or McConnell—had a rumpled look about him, as if he’d slept in his cheap suit.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

He’d called me “ma’am.” That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? If he was here to arrest me, he’d just have brought out the handcuffs.

“Stefanie Amor.”

“And you’re Ms. Walker’s roommate?”

“That’s right. Do you want to speak to her?”

They glanced at each other. What did that mean?

“She’s here?” the skinny one asked.

“Well, I guess she’s in her room.”

I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, but that wasn’t unusual. Our class schedules meant we often passed like ships in the dark. But she rarely stayed out, not unless someone paid her for the entire night, and most of our clients were too cheap for that.

“Could you check?”

“Sure.”

I knocked gently, then a bit harder when she didn’t answer. Still nothing. I cracked the door open and peered inside.

“Oh. She’s not here.”

“When did you last see her?”

I thought back. “Thursday evening. She was getting ready to go out.”

Another look passed between them.

“Are you close?” the thin one asked.

“Reasonably. We’ve been roommates for almost two years.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we have reason to believe Ms. Walker passed away.”

It took a few seconds for me to process his words. Chrissie, dead? No way. There had to be a mistake. She was twenty-two, the same age as me. She had her whole damn life to live.

“Ma’am? Would you like to sit down?”

He didn’t wait for my answer, just lowered me to the sofa as my legs gave way from under me.

Chrissie was dead.

My best friend was dead.

Disaster number two, and the path to my collision with Oliver Rhodes was set.